This Is Myrtle Beach, Not Minnesota

The story of our Myrtle Beach trip is both long and storied. It is full of bad jokes, alcohol and egregious behavior. In lieu of a rambling 1,500 word screed, I thought I’d try out the idea of bullet pointing some of the highlights. I would say these are in sequential order, but honestly, we were drunk and sleep deprived most of the time, so they are inserted in random order. All except this first one, because it happened before we left.

• I get a message from Z on Wednesday before we leave. He tells me John has vertigo. Big fucking deal, I think, I have it too but in that restrictive MP4 format that iTunes is so fond of but that renders it impossible to use with many other software applications. But he actually has the head-on-a –baseball-bat-spinning-in-circles kind. Z tells me not to worry; Mud says he is coming if he has to get to the airport in a wheelchair.

• Three double screwdrivers with Mark at the Charlotte airport after my plane made a rapid decent due to a medical emergency on the plane. Amazing how many medical personnel are on a flight. Never found out what happened, I just know we got to Charlotte in 40 minutes instead of an hour and ten.

• First round of golf sans John while he goes back to the condo to do whatever the hell you do to get rid of vertigo. Three six-packs and three cigars and I amazingly shoot 101, my lowest round of the trip.

• We finally unpack at the condo and try to get drunk before we leave for dinner, we mostly do. As we get out of the Excursion (cause we be big pimpin’) I state very clearly that we should pour ourselves out of the Ford. Somehow, Mark thinks I meant the beer, so he gets out and dumps out the beer…much to my dismay.

• We entertain our waitress at dinner, other waitresses and the couple sitting behind us while we discuss, loudly, acts that are largely forbidden by scripture. This is the first time John brings up his disdain for Fergie’s face.

• We spend the rest of the night at a “club” with no windows, a cover charge, and a DJ who keeps saying things like “Alana to the main stage.” We get home at 3:30AM

• Five minutes later, John barges into our room to announce we have to get up for golf. I tell him to fuck himself and to leave without me. OK, it was more like two and a half hours later but it felt like five minutes. I wake up a few hours later to Mark snoring through this mouth guard thing he wears to prevent such a thing and realize we threw in the towel on the morning outing.

• Round two had me score a personal highlight reel shot by driving a fairway iron shot out of the rough (where else would I be) on one hop into the moving cart of Mark and John.

• We spend the rest of the night at a couple of bars, notably an Irish place drinking Irish Car Bombs because John says “there is an element of Jamison’s” in them. We sing ourselves hoarse. We get back at 3:15 and Erik decides it is in our best interest to go back out to Magoo’s, the bar near the condo. John stays behind and we order three beers, I fall asleep sitting in a barstool, Mark disappears, comes back and we leave. I don’t think we touched our drinks. Somewhere I accuse Mark of being un-Italian for hanging out at the Irish place.

• Golf Part III ends in controversy as the dickhead starter bitches at us for not returning the carts the right way. He tells us that he wants them in groups of five and that now we have fucked everything up for him. We are further insulted because the clubhouse is locked (we were the second to the last group to come in) and we can’t piss. We consider taking a leak on the Jack Nicholas statue out front.

• We go for the trifecta of later-than-three-AM nights by going back to the Irish place. We declare the place full of douche bags and switch to Jager bombs and Heinekin in protest . Well, I do. John goes heavy with the Crown Royal and ginger ale. We stick around to hear a really great band cover both Stone Temple Pilots and a countrified version of Snoop Dog’s Gin and Juice.

• The boys head out on Sunday for the last round while I head to the airport. Bonnie has promised stuffed peppers…I don’t miss out on those. I board the plane and wake up to the stewardess talking. I think we are getting ready to take off. We are getting ready to land in Charlotte.

So that’s the summary. We redefined fun. But there is one more tidbit. When I was at the airport I went outside before going through security. A van pulled up with four old guys in it. The sliding side door opened and one of them moaned and groaned getting out.

His friend said, “Don’t hurt your back getting out of the van you old fuck.” Ball-busting never ages…I hope that’s John, Mark, Erik and me in thirty years.